


Here in Anatevka

by merellia



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Angst, Derek Feels, Derek Hale might actually have a nice day, Fluff, M/M, Malia likes to eat things, SO MUCH FLUFF, Stilinski Family Feels, according to Stiles, and monsters, background Scott/Kira, holiday moons, i have given myself cavities, once in a while, set vaguely post-3b, smidgens of domesticity, werewolf traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 08:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1850536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merellia/pseuds/merellia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gives Derek a big grin. “I know the ways of your people. It’s the Snow Moon.  Werewolfy traditions, I am down with them!”</p><p>Derek says, “It’s not a tradition.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here in Anatevka

February

“Here,” Stiles says, thrusting a multicolored snow cone under Derek’s nose as he drops into the Toyota’s passenger seat. “This is yours.”

Derek stops tapping the steering wheel—days of the full moon always leave him restless—and takes the snow cone, because it’s either that or have it slosh onto him, which it’s clearly threatening to do: the paper cone is already starting to soak through at the bottom with the bluish-purple runoff from the red, blue, and orange syrups. “What?”

“I didn’t know what flavor you’d like, so I got a rainbow,” Stiles says blithely, opening a greasy bag from Lou’s Shack and tucking a sleeve of curly fries into one of the console cup holders. 

The aroma of hot grease and spiced potatoes starts to fill the car, and Derek takes a tentative bite of the snow cone instead. Its cold, sugary-fruity scents smell much better than Stiles’ fries. “But a snow cone?”

“Dude, it’s a thank you. For, like, taking me to the store so I can get parts for the Jeep,” Stiles explains, his tone somewhat muffled around a mouthful of fries.

“Stiles. A _snow cone_?”

“Because,” Stiles swallows, then gives him a big grin. “I know the ways of your people. It’s the Snow Moon. Werewolfy traditions, I am down with them!” 

Derek can’t decide whether to wince, scowl, or what. “What traditions,” he grumbles, taking another bite of the snow cone.

Stiles rolls his eyes, the _duh_ coming through loud and clear despite the fries he’s chewing. 

“It’s not a tradition.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles says indignantly, “I totally read that it was.”

“Where, on a Twifans forum?” Derek asks snidely, eating the last of the ice slush.

Stiles nearly chokes on his fries, chortling. “I always knew you had read those books!”

Derek shakes his head. Laura had, and had read passages to him aloud to make him laugh. He morosely drains the last of the liquid from the paper cone before it can drip, tipping his head back to catch the last of it.

 

March

Derek doesn’t actually see Stiles on the day of the full moon, but when Scott arrives, letting himself into the rebuilt foyer of the Hale house—the paint so fresh it still filled the area with its stink—he tosses Derek a bag of candy. “Stiles said to give this to you.”

Derek catches the bag easily, then glances at it. Sour gummy worms. “What?”

“He said it was a full moon tradition for werewolves,” Scott says. He frowns. “Which I hadn’t heard about from you, man.”

“That’s because it’s not a tradition,” Derek snaps, as the front door opens again and Kira and Malia come in.

“What’s a tradition?” Kira asks cheerfully. 

Scott shrugs, taking off his jacket. “Stiles said it’s the Worm Moon, so he sent Derek some gummy worms.”

“It’s not a tradition!” Derek stalks off towards the mudroom. The others can do whatever they want. _He_ is going out for a run.

Kira calls after him plaintively, “Can’t I have some? I love gummy worms!”

 

April

Having obtained custody of her through means that discourage Derek from inquiring, Peter has dragged Malia off, after much protest from her, to shop for a bedroom set. Derek takes advantage of the quiet to sprawl on the living room couch. He’s reading a copy of _Too Many Cooks_ that he’d picked up for a dime at the Goodwill store (someone had penciled in marginal corrections to all the punctuation mistakes). 

A muffled thud from the front door interrupts his reading, pulling him abruptly from the story at a moment when Nero Wolfe is being wonderfully irascible and insulting everyone. Derek jerks upright at the noise and, now that he’s paying attention, can hear the pinging of a car’s engine as it begins cooling off, then the sound of a key in the lock.

He tosses the book aside and hurries to the front door just as Stiles flings it open. 

“Oh, hey, perfect timing!” Stiles pushes a brown paper bag at him, which Derek scowls but takes, and bends to pick up another. They smell, weirdly, of dirt. “This stuff’s kind of awkward.”

“What stuff?” Derek asks suspiciously. “And how did you get that key?”

“Borrowed it from Scotty,” Stiles says, and heads past him towards the kitchen. Derek follows. “You know, you should have given all of us one. Since this has sort of become the pack house.”

“It isn’t the pack house,” Derek grumbles. “It’s my house.” After a minute, he grudgingly adds, “And Peter’s and Malia’s.”

“Yeah, and we’re going to hold meetings where else? In the public library?” Stiles snorts at the thought, putting one bag down on the kitchen island.

Derek dumps his next to it. “How about Scott’s, since he’s—wait for it—the alpha?”

“Yeah, no, his mother said he was not hosting teenage raves in her house until he paid half the mortgage each month,” Stiles says, then adds, “Which would be awesome had there actually been any raves at his place. But his mom wasn’t happy when we broke the popcorn machine. Besides, your place is bigger. You should have us over for movies.” 

He starts rummaging through his bag and brings out, to Derek’s consternation, a trowel and a plastic bag full of dirt. “What is this?”

Stiles gives him a shit-eating grin. “It’s the Seed Moon, Derek!”

“No.”

“Yep,” Stiles smirks, and pulls his bag apart at the corners to spread it out flat on the butcher-block counter. He then proceeds to dump the dirt atop it. “Seedlings would be easier, but planting’s tradition, right? And I thought, what would be handier than kitchen herbs for your new kitchen.” He takes a few crockery pots out of the second bag, and some seed packets, and eyes them in clear satisfaction. 

“No.” Derek’s parents had both had black thumbs. His mother had kept trying to buy real rosemary bushes around Thanksgiving, and his dad had tried to grow narcissus for her once from bulbs, but the rosemary bushes always turned black and died before Christmas, and the bulbs never bloomed. Only Peter’s wife Carole had grown plants, but they had been a collection of succulents. Derek isn’t sure that counts, since they almost never have to be watered. Derek frowns at the pang of memory.

“Oregano and thyme and basil,” Stiles continues blithely, laying out the seed packets, and then putting the planters in a row, two blue pots flanking a yellow pot. “The pots are ones we had around home, but I got you a new watering can,” and Derek is already cringing at the rich satisfaction in Stiles’ tone; it never bodes well. Stiles pulls it out with a flourish. “See!”

The watering can is gray, and shaped like an elephant. The spout is the elephant’s trunk. “No.”

Stiles eyes it critically. “It also came in pink, but I figured you’d like this one better.”

“I don’t want it.”

Stiles sighs. “It’s just for watering. You don’t have to wear it as a fashion accessory.” He trowels some dirt into the pots. Derek crosses his arms, refusing to help. After adding the seeds to the first pot, Stiles tucks the packet by the rim. He’s more focused, movements more fluid, than Derek has seen in months. More centered in himself. Some dirt scatters onto the floor, and Derek huffs, but goes to get the broom and dust pan.

When the planting has been finished, Stiles eyes the results critically. “We can make proper tags for them later,” he says, folding the second bag into a long strip and then moving it, and the planters, to the windowsill by the kitchen table. Derek would never admit it, but the bright pops of blue and yellow are kind of cheerful against the white walls and cabinetry.

A few weeks later, Malia follows Stiles into the kitchen. Stiles flourishes a bag of microwave popcorn. “Only the best for movie night!”

Losing interest in the sight of a bag doing nothing more than inflating in the microwave, Malia sits down gingerly at the kitchen table, where Derek is sullenly putting out paper napkins and bowls for snacks. He is not going to clean up after everyone. Clearly finding Derek’s activities as boring as Stiles’, Malia twists around to look at the pots on the windowsill. She dubiously inspects the seedlings sprouting tiny green leaves. “You eat this stuff?”

 

May

Peter is lingering over his coffee and laptop at the kitchen table, Malia having headed off to school for another special tutoring session, when Derek enters the kitchen. He ignores how Peter gives him a speculative glance, and instead fishes the jug of orange juice out of the fridge. There’s barely any left, so Derek just drinks it from the jug. 

Peter drawls, “So glad to see your manners on display, Derek.”

Derek ignores him, puts the jug in the recycling bin, and grabs a protein bar from the pantry. Peter apparently feels neglected and tries again. “Since you drank the last, it’s your turn to get more. The Farmer’s Market’s open today, so you might as well pick up the other groceries while you’re at it.”

Derek grunts acknowledgement, peeling back the wrapping from his protein bar, and keeping barely a sidelong glance on his uncle. 

Peter’s lip curls, before he glances at his computer and seems to re-think his next comment. “The new butcher that’s opened downtown, on Locust Street? They emailed to say they’ve got organic antelope. Stop by there, too. A rack of ribs, maybe. I can put them to roast while we’re out tonight with the others. And—”

“Gotta run,” Derek says, foregoing a second protein bar, grabbing the shopping list off the refrigerator, and beating a hasty retreat before Peter can think of additional chores to tax him with.

By the time Derek gets to the butcher’s, mid-afternoon, there’s plenty of space left in the cooler he’s put in the Toyota’s trunk, and there are ribs available. The smell of the shop makes his stomach rumble in hunger, so he is grateful when there’s not much of a line and he can leave only a few minutes later. 

He’s just settled the ribs next to the orange juice and eggs (the crazily expensive free-range pheasant eggs that Malia demands, saying they are the only ones that taste properly eggy), when a familiar car pulls in next to his and Stiles says, “Derek! Just the person I was looking for.”

Derek slams trunk shut and goes to the driver’s-side door of the car. “What.”

Stiles scrambles over to lean out the open passenger-side window of his Jeep. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, Derek notices, then curses himself for the distraction when Stiles says, “You’re harder to track down than when you had the Camaro.” He waves that aside, then continues, “So. You know it’s the Milk Moon tonight, right, and—”

“No, I don’t,” Derek says, sourly.

“And you know the tradition for the Milk Moon—”

“I don’t, because _it isn’t a tradition_ , Stiles.”

“Is too! I researched it,” Stiles inserts, before hurrying on in the face of Derek’s glare, “so I was wondering—”

“On the Elder Scrolls wiki,” Derek mutters.

Stiles makes a face at him. “I have skills, Derek, research skills, and I would never go there for information, and how do you even—”

Derek has to restrain a smirk when he hears the flip of Stiles’ heartbeat at that. “Liar,” he says. 

“For _reliable_ information,” Stiles snaps, before visibly reining in his temper. “Anyway, as I was saying before you repeatedly and rudely interrupted me, asshole, I am offering to buy you a milkshake.”

“A milkshake,” Derek says.

“Ye-e-es,” Stiles says, gesturing extravagantly. “Milkshake. Because it’s _Milk Moon_ , get it? Milk—”

“I’m not hungry,” Derek says. 

His stomach chooses that moment to grumble audibly, and Stiles’ entire face brightens with a grin. “Li-ar,” he sing-songs gleefully.

“You should be in school.”

“Teacher workday. So! Is that a yes? It’s not a no, so you’re saying yes in Derek-speak, you want a milkshake that’ll bring all the boys—”

“If you don’t shut up, I’m leaving.”

Stiles flings the door of his Jeep open and scrambles out feet-first, “Shutting up, right, and we’re just by Blacktop’s, they make the best milkshakes.”

Derek sighs, and steps back onto the sidewalk. “I want a banana one. If they don’t have it, I’m leaving.”

He doesn’t leave.

 

June

The evening of the full moon, Stiles shows up carrying a crown of flowers. 

Derek shuts the door in his face, then locks the dead bolt.

“Derek? Derek!” Stiles starts shouting, so Derek goes into the living room and turns on the record player and cranks up the volume until Stiles’ shouting is adequately muffled by the voice of a singer burbling about drinking horchata. (Cora had introduced Derek to horchata when he visited her, made with rice milk, cinnamon, and vanilla.) 

The record is Malia’s, as is the player, which Derek had gotten her for her birthday. He had been puzzled by the request since it had seemed too retro-popular for Malia, until Stiles had rolled his eyes and said, “She has less experience with technology than _you_.” Peter had set it up. 

Derek approves of her choice of gift now.

 

July

Around the middle of the month, a colony of camazotz try moving into Beacon Hills. There’s a rash of missing pets, and backyard chickens owned by some of Beacon Hills’ hipster urban farmers, which (after a tip from the Sheriff) Derek and Scott and Malia track down to discover only blood-drained corpses. The police think it’s the work of an incipient serial killer. 

By the time Lydia and Stiles figure out the real culprits, it’s just before the full moon, and everyone spends that day and night hunting them down and eradicating them. 

Exhausted in the wake of their efforts, Stiles finally staggers off, muttering something about having to come up with a plausible explanation for his dad to use at work. He doesn’t try foisting any unnecessary gifts onto Derek, nor does he rattle on about so-claimed werewolf traditions. Derek supposes he feels . . . relieved? It hasn’t made sense for Stiles to fuss over fake traditions of a family not his own. Derek is relieved Stiles has stopped. And grateful. Stiles can do better things with his time. 

A couple days later, he waits until Peter has gone to Malia’s parent-teacher conference to borrow Peter’s laptop. A few minutes after that, he’s on Google, and he types in his query.

Aggravatingly, there are way too many possibilities—different Native American tribes, the Chinese, Neo-Pagans, ancient Celts, and medieval Europeans all seemed to have names for the moons, and they’re all different. None of Stiles’ choices come from any single calendar that Derek finds.

He reframes his search term, adding in werewolves, then recoils from the results. They’re mostly fantasy sites, image collections, and a “werewolf diet” site, which he refuses to look at and hopes Stiles never sees. 

He contemplates asking Peter, but dismisses the notion with a wince.

Nevertheless, Peter somehow discovers what Derek had been using his computer to look for, and starts twitting him about it. “Derek, forgot to placate the spirits on the Hungry Ghost Moon?” he asks slyly. And, “Remember to go pick peaches in the light of the Fruit Moon next month, Derek. Get extra for me.” Peter laughs when Derek gives him a glare and a growl. “Also, hands off my computer, nephew.” 

 

August

On the afternoon of the full moon, Derek returns home to find a brown paper-wrapped package in his name on the doorstep. It smells like Stiles and food, and there is a small piece of notepaper folded over on top. When he picks the package up, the underside is cool and damp. 

Derek tentatively unwraps it. There’s a thawing ice block inside, and a package of smoked fish; a couple pounds’ worth. “Huh.” He unfolds the notepaper. Stiles’ scrawl confronts him and reads: “Happy Sturgeon Moon!” Next to it, there’s an outline of a fish with a toothy smile, sideburns, and pointed ears. A were-fish? A werewolf-fish?

Derek sighs.

(Later, Peter has to wrestle the package out of Malia’s grasp before he makes it into a cream soup with potatoes. It’s delicious.)

 

September

Not long after school starts again, Lydia is the first to alert everyone that something has been killing people in Beacon Hills (again), not far from the borders of the Preserve. Hikers have discovered bones, but no signs of humans—Scott had even checked out the site and smelled nothing out-of-place for the woods. 

Then two women come to Animal Control, who comes to the Sheriff’s office, with a story about being chased by a bird the night before. It had flown in front of their car, then by the driver’s-side window as the engine failed. They’d stayed inside the car, doors and windows locked, and the bird had eventually disappeared. But the next night another person near the Preserve is attacked. He also escapes, and survives long enough to be found by the road before dying, mentioning something about a baby crying. And claws.

So the Sheriff called Derek and asked him and Peter to stop by for a consult. 

When they arrive, Stilinski greets them at the door. “I know you have plans with the others soon tonight, so thanks for coming,” he says, waving them in. “Stiles has ordered pizza, if you would like some when it arrives.” He disappears for a moment into the kitchen, re-emerging with a few beers and Stiles trailing along behind, looking unusually apprehensive.

Stilinski pops the top on the first beer, nodding to his son. “Stiles also said you’d like this kind of beer today. He tried to convince me to let him buy them, too.”

“Dad!”

“Well, you did,” Stilinski says.

Stiles looks both embarrassed and superior. “It would have been, like, a sting. To see if they checked for ID,” he says loftily.

Stilinksi passes Peter a bottle, then Derek, raising a skeptical eyebrow at his son. “Knowledge which you would not have then exploited thereafter, I’m sure.”

“Daaaad. That is so not the point. I would have been an agent of the law!”

“You’re enough of an agent without bringing the law into it right now,” Stilinski says dryly, settling down on the couch. The coffee table in front of him has a collection of manila folders stacked upon it, and Stiles plunks down next to him, immediately grabbing the top folder. His fingers look long and slim as he flips through it, Derek notices uneasily. Derek takes a hasty swallow of the beer, letting himself be distracted by it: it’s richly bitter and hoppy.

“It’s good,” Peter says, reading the label on his bottle. “Red’s Barleywine Ale. A local microbrew?” 

Stiles looks up, then glances over at Derek. “Yeah. It’s, uh, the Barley Moon, and you know, the full moon tradition. . . .”

Peter gives Derek a pointed look, and Derek tries not to fidget. “Oh, that tradition. Derek’s become very interested in full moon traditions lately.” Derek feels the tips of his ears get hot.

It doesn’t escape Derek that the Sheriff is watching the exchange with sharp interest, moreso as Stiles grins, drops the folder he’s holding, then blurts as he bends to pick it up, “Derek, you should check out the back label.”

Dubious, Derek does so, then gets to—“‘full of alpha oil hop tartness’?” he wonders aloud. 

Stiles snickers. “Keep going.”

“. . . ‘balanced with the spark of beta acids that contribute to its redolent barley aroma,’” Derek reads flatly.

“It’s the official pack beer!” Stiles crows.

Stilinski puts a hand on Stiles’ nape and gives him a gentle shake. “Kiddo, we actually do have business to conduct tonight,” he says. 

Stiles sobers and nods, “Yeah, right. Baby-screaming monster in the woods.” He lifts a hand, and Derek is caught again by the length of his fingers as he starts ticking off what points they know about the thing, even as he also takes in how easily Stiles assumes control of the conversation. Stilinski listens and watches with the comfortable assurance of a man who knows his job and enjoys seeing his son grow into his own. “A bird—warning or threat?” Derek feels Peter’s eyes on him, and drops his gaze to the floor as he listens to Stiles continue.

 

October

It takes them more than another month to get rid of the monster, who turns out to be a shape-shifting witch, a Lechuza. Giant, flesh-eating owl by night, unassuming civilian by day. She’d been working as a Park Service employee at the Preserve, recently relocated to Beacon Hills after Ranger Evans had gone on maternity leave. Finally, Scott asks them all to convene for a planning meeting now that they know what they’re dealing with.

Lydia fiddles with a palm-size device, then points it at the blank wall in Derek’s living room, where they’ve gathered. The scents of salad, roast duck, and a steaming potato-cheese-sausage casserole that Stiles had produced distractingly drift from the kitchen and dining room. “This is the data Stiles has compiled, converted by Danny into a GIS system,” she begins.

“So the red marks locations of where we know victims were attacked,” Stiles explains as Lydia presses a couple buttons on the device. His mouth looks especially wet in the dim lighting, and Derek forces himself to pay attention to their explanation. “And blue, where bones were located. Paths in the area—officially maintained and casual—are also marked.”

Lydia adds, “I developed a cluster analysis algorithm to take advantage of this spatial data. It’s predictive, and based on that, I can suggest these two locations as probable for the next attack.”

“Wow, guys, so neat!” Kira exclaims. “So what do you want us to do next?”

“Why isn’t it what _I_ want us to do next?” Scott asks, nudging her shoulder with a grin.

She flashes a quick smile at him. “Because you’re the smart alpha who knows his pack’s strengths,” she says, and Scott’s smile becomes wider and somehow sappy as they lean together to exchange a quick kiss. Derek twitches in mixed embarrassment and pride, watching him; he’s such a puppy, but he’s so natural at being a good alpha.

“I do have other things to do with my time,” Lydia drawls, “So if you’d please concentrate on the matter at hand.” Malia, Peter, and Stiles all snort or cough or laugh in amusement as Scott and Kira snap to attention, and Derek has to refrain from straightening his own spine in response. Lydia switches to another image. “Stiles gave me a breakdown of your relative strengths and skills, which I added to my predictive model.”

Stiles nods, picking up the thread of the conversation. “These places mark where and in what combinations I suggest we spend the next couple of nights. It would be easier to deal with her in human form in the day, but that also raises our chances of getting caught. So we’ll focus on possibilities after dark. I read that she can be trapped with a ward made from salted string and placed at the boundaries of her territory. I’ll do that. Then we’ll catch her.”

Malia leans forward eagerly. “And then kill her, right?”

“Not so bloodthirsty, child,” Peter murmurs, and Derek has to bite back a snarl at the irony. Across the room, he sees Lydia’s mouth tighten and Kira give her a quick glance.

Scott says dubiously, “She can’t be saved?”

Stiles shakes his head, then glances at Derek, who sighs, but says, “Nothing Peter or I know suggest that’s the case.”

Peter nods. “She is as she is because she has sacrificed herself to practice dark magic. You all know what that means.”

“Yes, we do,” Lydia says, with a glare at him. Peter gives her a smile and an insouciant lift of his hands, and Lydia sets her chin before dismissing him with a look.

Stiles looks at Derek, and Derek says, “Deaton had nothing to add, either.”

When Lydia’s irritation at Peter—and Peter’s growing grin—lead to curious glances between them from Malia, Stiles stands abruptly and claps his hands. “But before we kill, food!” he announces. “And there’s dessert. Chocolate cherry pie.”

There’s an eager rush for the dining room, though Peter lingers behind to look at the images more closely, and Stiles ducks into the kitchen to bring out the duck. 

He steps into the dining room not long after Derek, and puts it on the side table with a big bowl of salad—with butternut squash, avocado, mozzarella, tomato, and basil (that Stiles had gathered from one of the potted kitchen plants)—the cheesy potato casserole, a bowl of kale and wild rice and mushrooms, and a long loaf of crusty bread. Peter eventually comes out with another two ducks on a platter.

“So much food, Stiles!” Scott exclaims. “Is this another one of those werewolf traditions?”

“It’s for Harvest Moon,” Stiles says. “Pig out before you wolf out!”

Scott groans at the joke, but Malia just huffs. “Or coyote out,” she says firmly.

Kira winks at her. “Yeah, or fox out! Don’t be prejudiced against non-wolves, Stiles,” she says teasingly.

Stiles grins. “I stand corrected. The Harvest moon tradition is just to eat well before a hard task.”

Derek can’t refrain from rolling his eyes, even as he grabs a plate. “It’s not a tradition,” he grumbles. “It’s just fake.”

Stiles knocks a fist against Derek’s shoulder. “Hey. They’re not fake if they mean something. And they’re traditions as long as they’re repeated.” He pauses for a moment and his heartbeat flutters faster as he adds, “I plan to do that.”

Derek blinks at him and takes a queasy breath, trying to figure out how to respond. Stiles is young—too young—Stiles shouldn’t—couldn’t—be planning a future like that, one with Derek.

Scott leans past him to grab some silverware, then happily begins to fill his plate with a huge mound of potatoes. “We’ll all do that,” Scott says, stepping into the conversational gap created by Derek’s overlong pause. “This is seriously great, Stiles. We’ll all bring something to add next time.”

Lydia flips her hair back disdainfully. “I? Don’t cook.”

“You could bring bread, Lydia. You don’t have to make that.” Kira offers. “Oh! I will get some water for us,” she adds, ducking into the kitchen. 

Stiles gives Derek a quick smile, then says to Scott, “You need something besides starch and protein. Eat something green, man.” Derek relaxes. 

“You are not the boss of my diet,” Scott says firmly. “I am saving room for pie.”

“You’re going to get scurvy.”

Scott grins brightly at Stiles. “Supernatural healing powers, bro. I can’t get scurvy.”

“I want more meat,” Malia announces as she sits down, plate piled high with what looks like most of the sausage from the potato casserole, smidgens of the salad and kale dishes, and half a duck. “This one looks scrawny.”

 

November

Derek is sleeping in, trying to ignore the restlessness of a full moon day that itches just under his skin, only there’s a thudding and scraping noise. A thudding and scraping noise that doesn’t stop, but repeats with just enough variation to be impossible to ignore. Grumbling, he throws back the covers and gets out of bed. He thuds downstairs in boxers, pulling on a Henley as he goes.

Peter and Malia have already occupied the kitchen: the coffee maker’s carafe is half-full; plates and a pan and pot are soaking in the sink, and the man himself has spread the Beacon Hills Gazette over the kitchen table, Malia sitting across from him. They look up as Derek enters, scratching his stubble. “What’s that noise.”

Peter gives him one of those smiles that never lead to anything good or helpful. “That, dear nephew, is your suitor.”

Suddenly Derek is completely awake, pausing with his hand in the box of protein bars. “My _what_.”

Peter props one hand underneath his chin, raising his eyebrows at Derek. “Young Mr. Stilinski, Derek. Who wants in your pants.”

A wash of nausea fills Derek’s stomach. “No. He—” Derek grasps after the memory of an overheard comment. “He is interested in Malia. Not me.”

Malia looks up from her eggs, giving him a perplexed glance. “Stiles doesn’t want to mount me any more,” she says with a bluntness that has Peter coughing into his coffee. 

“Any more?” Peter gasps, fumbling for a napkin.

Malia shrugs. “He said he was confused by the Nogitsune. He likes me, but not that way. He also likes boys—men,” she amends, after a look at Derek.

Derek drops his protein bar.

“I knew two geese who were like that,” Malia adds. She pauses reflectively. “They were tasty.”

Derek leaves. Behind him, he hears Peter asking, “What _did_ you do with Stiles?”

Derek goes upstairs to put on some pants, then socks, then shoes, tying the laces slowly as he tries to gather his thoughts. They don’t really want to come. 

The thudding and scraping noises haven’t stopped, so Derek goes outside. Stiles is digging a hole not too far from the south side of the house. Nearby are three saplings in buckets.

He looks up as Derek nears, and smiles at him, “Hey.”

“Why are you here.”

Stiles’ eyebrows arch and his smile quirks wider. He gestures to the saplings. “It’s Tree Moon. I got a New Harmony elm, and a couple night-blooming trees. I kind of thought they were appropriate. . . .”

Something in Derek’s expression must betray him; Stiles stops digging and straightens, looking him over carefully. “What’s wrong?”

“Why this. All this—these fake traditions,” Derek says. He takes a breath, then manages, “Are you—trying to date me?” The word feels odd in his mouth, tainted, full of mistakes.

Stiles is clearly surprised by the question, his heartbeat quickening. “No,” he says, and it’s true, and Derek takes what feels like the first breath in a lifetime, feeling—relief. Then Stiles adds with his customary forthrightness, “Not that I would be adverse to it, if you were, you know,” and he gestures in Derek’s direction, “interested.” 

Derek’s hands clench, and he shakes his head. Stiles nods. “Yeah, figured. Also I figured, even if you were interested, you have enough issues that we wouldn’t last long anyway, without therapy.” He cracks a bit of a grin. “You know, Morrell accepts clients. It could be helpful. I know.”

“Then why.”

Stiles crouches down, resting his arms over his knees and letting his hands fall loose. The sleeves of his shirt (shirts, red plaid over a white graphic tee with the Hulk on it) have been rolled up to his elbows, Derek notices, and then feels angry for noticing. “After . . . after Mom died,” he says slowly. “Dad and I stopped doing. Things. That we’d been used to. Going to the beach. Camping. We—used to go out driving on Saturday afternoons. Mom would say we were going in ‘search of adventure.’ Usually to local farmers’ markets. Playgrounds, state parks.”

He flicks a glance up at Derek, eyes honey-gold in the morning light, then looks down at the hole, picking up a trowel and prying loose a few rocks. “Losing those traditions made losing her worse.” He shrugs. “Eventually, Dad and I started doing other things together. Having lunch together at his office, going to local ballgames, different stuff. I thought . . . you could use some new traditions, too.” He gives a dry chuckle. “Enjoy some nice things for once. We all could.” Stiles makes a vague gesture with one hand. “That was it.”

Derek looks around at the saplings, remembers the oak tree that had arched over this end of the house until it, too, caught on fire and went up in flames along with everything else. He takes a breath, and it feels lighter. “Tree Moon?”

The lingering grief washes away from Stiles’ face when he smiles, small at first, then growing bigger. “Yeah. Yeah!” he stands, dusting off his hands. “I read that night-blooming trees were used in meditation gardens. I liked how that sounded. Peaceful. I figured the elm could go here, and you could tell me where you’d prefer the other two.”

Derek slides him a glance, watching as Stiles picks up the shovel once again, and thinks about a Google search he did. “My family,” he says, and then clears his throat. “My family . . . observed the Beaver Moon this month.”

Stiles stops his renewed digging, his mouth dropping open as he stares at Derek. “Beaver Moon?”

Derek nods. 

Stiles licks his lips and swallows. “Did you eat—what did you _do_ for Beaver Moon?” He is clearly prepared to be horrified by tales of werewolf recipes.

Derek lifts his shoulders and says simply, “Wore beaver hats.”

“You—” Stiles looks at him incredulously. “You did _not_.” 

Derek shrugs.

“You are such a dick!”

 

December

This year, the full moon falls a week before Christmas. The day before, Scott shows up carrying a Christmas tree, which he brings in past Derek when Derek unwittingly opens the door at Stiles’ knock. Stiles follows after, carrying a stand for it. Derek has started seeing Morrell (Stiles was right; she is helpful) and doesn’t feel up to the company afterward. He’s still figuring out how to kick Scott and Stiles out when they excuse themselves, and depart as quickly as they’d arrived.

Leaving behind an eight-foot-tall fir tree.

The next day, the pack has plans to meet for a full moon run, but to Derek’s puzzlement, they start showing up earlier. Kira arrives not long after breakfast with strings of multicolored lights for the tree, and she and Malia squabble over whether the lights or the punched-tin star that Malia has, somehow, acquired should be put on first.

Lydia marches in with boxes of glass icicles, and demands Derek move the foot-ladder for her so that she can hang them more easily, which she does with a breezy swiftness before departing again.

Peter emerges from his office (he keeps calling it his den, upon hearing which Stiles had tacked on ‘of iniquity’ before being pummeled with marshmallows by Kira and Malia, and now Derek struggles to stop himself thinking of it that way all the time) to hang boxes of colored spheres around the tree before departing abruptly.

Melissa McCall, Scott, Sheriff Stilinski, and Stiles all arrive not long before moonrise. Melissa and Scott are carrying tins full of cookies—the smell of sugar, nuts, and chocolate quickly filling the pine-scented air—and Stilinski has a thermos of what turns out to be hot chocolate, along with a flask of Cointreau for mixing into it. 

Derek and Malia trail after them into the kitchen. “It’s my mother’s recipe,” Stilinski explains, as Stiles rootless around in the cabinets until he finds a saucepan for his father to heat the orange liqueur and hot chocolate in. 

Melissa gives Derek a warm smile and a hug as she plates the cookies. “Scott and Stiles said this is a tradition—for the Christmas Moon?” she comments.

Derek says, “I—yes?” with a glance at Stiles, who beams at him.

Melissa helps herself to a sugar-sprinkled rosette cookie with a sigh, half in pleasure, and half rueful. “Next to Girl Scout cookie season, this is the worst for all my healthy resolutions.”

“Oh my god, thin mints,” Scott moans.

“Says he who ate a whole box at once last year,” Stiles snarks.

“Shut up, I was starving.”

“I want some of these thin mints,” Malia announces.

Scott grins at her. “You’ll have to wait for the Girl Scouts to take orders.”

“I could hunt a Girl Scout now.”

“Now, we can commence with the proper traditional activities for this moon,” Stiles announces with a pomposity belied by his teasing grin. “Cookies, Christmas tree, and,” as he holds up a dvd, “one holiday movie, full of moonlit travels! And,” he holds up a second, “another full of appropriate seasonality!”

Derek scowls, reading the titles. “ _The Fellowship of the Ring_ and _Santa Claus Conquers the Martians_?” he says, disbelieving.

Scott laughs at him. “I talked him out of _Curse of the Werewolf_ already.”

Melissa adds with a roll of her eyes, “Having been subjected to it already, I can say that you should count yourself lucky, Derek, that we’re not watching it.”

“Hey, it has a werewolf baby born on Christmas day,” Stiles protests.

Malia looks at the dvds skeptically. “Aren’t there any about coyotes?”

Stilinski explains to Derek, “His mother and I took him to see the Fellowship when it came out in the theaters, in December.”

Stiles nods, nudging Derek’s shoulder. “It’s a tradition.”

Derek presses back, briefly. “Sounds like a good one.”

 

January

Back from an appointment with Morrell and trying to relax, Derek is on the couch, reading a letter from Cora, when Stiles bangs the door behind him as he enters the house. Derek sighs, looks up and thinks about commenting, then decides against it and goes back to his letter—until Stiles drops a plastic bag in Derek’s lap. 

Their cheeks brush as Stiles bends over to whisper in Derek’s ear, “Happy Wolf Moon. If you’re interested.” Derek closes his eyes and shudders at the feel of Stiles’ skin, surrounded by his warmth and his scent, wanting and holding back. Stiles slowly straightens, gives him a grin, and then crosses the living room towards the hall to the mud room.

There’s a murmuring exchange between him, Scott, and Malia as Derek looks down at the bag in his lap and slowly opens it. He shakes out the cloth bundle within to unfold a black graphic t-shirt, printed with the image of a howling wolf silhouetted against a full, silvery moon. Its texture is a bit odd, shiny and smoother than that of the rest of the graphic. It has, he suspects, has been colored with glow-in-the-dark paint. And the wolf has pink hearts for eyes.

 

February

It’s the day of the Snow Moon again, and Stiles has asked Derek to accompany him to the shooting range, since club rules require all members to shoot in pairs, and Melissa won’t let Scott go with Stiles; she doesn’t approve of guns. Derek arranges to pick Stiles up after school instead.

Stiles conveniently complains that he’s hungry, so Derek swings by Lou’s Shack. “I missed lunch, so I’ll go in and get stuff for us,” he says, taking a breath and refusing to think about the trickle of sweat trailing down his spine. Morrell said he could do this. If he wants to, and—he thinks he does. 

Stiles nods, distracted by a text Lydia has just sent him. “You know my usual, thanks.”

When Derek gets back to the car with their orders, he knocks on Stiles’ door with his elbow and mimes having overfull hands, so Stiles rolls his eyes, then gets out to help. 

Derek thrusts a cherry snow cone at him. “Moon gifts should be reciprocated,” he says gruffly. “It’s traditional.” 

Stiles looks at him steadily, measuringly, before he accepts the snow cone and takes a bite from it, licking the cherry-flavored syrup from his lips. “I look forward to all the other moons, then,” he says. 

He takes another bite, and smiles at Derek. It’s like no other smile Derek’s seen him give before, wider and brighter and deeper, and Derek wants to kiss it. Kiss him. He leans in, and Stiles’ eyes darken. He tips his head slightly, accommodatingly, and Derek relaxes into the kiss. Stiles’ arms come warm and firm about him. Stiles isn’t leaving, won’t leave, is planning on a future that has Derek in it, full of traditions they share, and Derek’s mouth is full of the sweet cherry taste of Stiles.

(Derek drops their sodas and Stiles spills the snow cone down his back. He makes Stiles pay to have his sweater dry-cleaned. It’s his favorite, the one with thumb holes, and especially cozy.)

**Author's Note:**

> Feel welcome to drop me a note, or say hi [on tumblr](http://www.http://merellia.tumblr.com/)!


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